


Better Offers

by glasvegi



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Protect Earl Harlan, terrible 80's bands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasvegi/pseuds/glasvegi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they were young, Cecil had taught him how to put on sunscreen and how much sun was too much and called him his best friend. They'd added “forever”, but time has a way of making sure the important promises fall apart.</p><p>Earl's life will always have Cecil there, playing some part. Now Earl is playing one back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Offers

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the song "Stupid" by Brendan MacLean and loosely on this post: http://luannlee.tumblr.com/post/93694416921
> 
> sosososo many thanks to punkrockgaia for reading this when it was draft-y messy... thing.

The sun set rattles each board and bone in Night Vale. Earl Harlan barely notices.

Earl is listening to the news, reviewing the requirements each of his boys must meet before becoming an eagle scout. He makes a mark next to the unknowable badge. He always forgets about that one.

Cecil's voice fills every inch of the room and Earl tuns the volume on his radio down. If the news is important enough, the secret police will be stopping by to regulate the volume. He can deal with that.

The dishes in the sink have been there for a few days. Earl rolls up his sleeves and lets the tap drown out the rest of Cecil's voice.

He leaves the water running after his dishes are clean. There is a temptation to leave it on, to spend the rest of his time with a cold white noise filter. But then Earl remembers he has to shower and water his bloodstone garden, and shakes away that idea.

As Earl turns the tap off, Cecil is saying things about military cemeteries and falling in love instantly. Earns turns off his radio.

He doesn't fall asleep sleep for hours. He pulls out everything he brought when he moved out; all the scout papers and diplomas, in a box under everything else he piled in his closet. There's an old notebook, and when he picks it up carefully, it opens to a page of note on the hierarchy of angels. Oops. Earl turns the page, tearing the corner. He finds a page full of half-scribbled out words and phrases churned with a heavy hand. He rips out the page, reading through the angry second thoughts. There's no date at the top of the page, but he knows when he wrote this. He knows when he had to have written this. Earl circles a line with his pencil and lies down to pretend to sleep.

 

_let's not be friends._

 

* * *

 

“Cecil?”

Cecil is lying very still on Earl's bed. Earl thinks that if Cecil throws up there, Cecil will be cleaning it up.

“Are you doing alright?”

“Earl, I am very, very, verrry. Very.”

“Very what?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Very drunk. Got it.”

“Earl, I'm gonna...”

He lurches forward and Earl picks him up under the armpits and drags him to the bathroom. He listens for his mom and figures that if she isn't asleep anymore, she'll understand. It's Cecil, after all.

Cecil throws up intermittently, standing up and swearing that he's okay before dropping back down in front of the toilet again.

“Earl.” Cecil rests his head on the toilet seat, smiling at his friend. “You are so great. I am so glad we're here again. I love you so much.”

Earl smiles underneath the weight of his face. Everything is so much heavier than it should be.

He knows the words will sting in the morning, but he lets himself pretend they mean what he wants them to.

“You're great. You are such a good friend. I can't-” He turns his head and vomits into the toilet.

“I can't believe we're still friends.”

 

Earl tears off a square of toilet paper and reaches out to wipes vomit off of Cecil's face. They had the forethought to tie back his dreads earlier. Earl is very thankful for this.

“You're not perfect but you are so great. I'm not perfect.”

Earl laughs, taking in the scene of his best friend puking into his mom's toilet and thinking _perfect._

“If you ever meet someone who's perfect,” Earl hands Cecil a washcloth and continues, “You need to describe them to me.”

Cecil puts the washcloth on his face. He leaves it there, tipping his head up to keep it covering his face.

“I will do that, Earl. I think I should go to bed now.”

Earl doesn't pick Cecil up again. They walk back to Earl's room slightly less disheveled and with a little more grace.

 

They fall onto the bed and into dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Cecil puts down the tray of sugar packets and squints at his friend.

“Earl?”

He waves his hands, check flapping between his fingers.

“Hello, Earl? Night Vale to Earl, come in Harlan.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Earl takes a large sip of his coffee. “So. This guy.'

Cecil's face softens for a moment, eyes drifting back to memories Earl can't see. Then his face crinkles into worry lines. The picture of concern. “Are you sure you're alright? We don't have to talk about this.”

“No, keep talking. What... What's his name?”

Cecil's smile burns his tongue and throat.

“Carlos. Have you seen his hair? If you had, you'd know why he's perfect.”

Earl takes another sip of coffee to cool them down. He grabs a napkin from the dispenser and takes a pen from his pocket.

 

_what is his name now_

_if you made me a coffee I could've loved you._

 

“What's that?”

“Just notes. You gonna actually ask Carlos out?”

Cecil looks down into his mug and Earl knows that face. He takes the check from Cecil's hand and slides it and a couple dollars back under the sugar packet tray before he can grab it back.

 

* * *

 

The new waitress at the Moonlite All-Nite diner smiles at Earl whenever she passes by. He finds himself there often, talking to her. He feels validated talking to her, because she laughs at his jokes that he has told before that she hasn't heard yet. He is also terrified, because everyone knows what waitresses are capable of and the powers their job gives them. He feels guilt when he doesn't call her. He feels helplessness and frustration and anger because no matter how many times he starts to type in her number or can feel her presence tickling his throat as he stares into the void, he thinks about Cecil more.

Earl doesn't smile back at her next time.

 

* * *

 

Earl unfolds each section of his pocket knife, curved blades and forked points familiar and worn as his skin. He runs his thumb along the file slowly. He bites his cheek.

 

“Cecil, I have a... Dilema. Kind of. Thing.”

“What?”

“There's a person, I guess. Well, not really. Not like...”

Cecil's eyes open past the point of endearing and entering the territory of vaguely terrifying. It still makes an acid pour through Earl's veins and he smiles with all his teeth up at his friend.

“Like... a special person? Are you going to make them...” he lowers his voice to a stage whisper, “ _your valentine?_ ”

“God, no. Nothing like that. I just... Like there's a librarian somewhere in town, and whenever you leave, like the new pizza place-”

“Big Rico's,” Cecil adds.

“Yeah, thanks.” Earl is not thankful. “And you might run into it anywhere, but you know it's going to find you eventually, because librarians always do. You know?”

Cecil's mouth is tipping down as he runs over what he just heard. Concern writes itself onto his face.

“There isn't a librarian loose in Night Vale, is there?”

 

Earl laughs under his breath.

“No, it's stupid. Hey, you gonna play me those tapes?”

 

* * *

 

“...And so, if you try to make less noise, you always end up being louder! I bet the last intern had wished he'd known that.”

Earl had no idea what Cecil had carefully avoided to delay his inevitable death. He had something much more important pressing against the back of his skull. Time hasn't brought Earl the knowledge of what Cecil had been waxing on about, but his words come back anyways.

Earl walks out of the booth, keeping his back to Cecil and the words he never meant to speak. The door closes behind him with a vacuum sealed puff of air. He makes no effort to quiet his hiccups as tears start to slide down his cheeks, forced out with each blink. This week's intern- some disposable teenager the station no doubt lured past the steel plated doors- stops dead in front of Earl. She is slathered in dried mud and various bloods and is holding a large, completely flattened mammal. It is dripping on the carpet.

Earl hears the carpet squish under his feet as he leaves the community radio station.

That night Earl hears his words parroted back over the radio. It kills him how neutral Cecil's tone stays, not mocking or apologetic. Just the impartial repetition of a true journalist. Earl turns off his radio.

 

* * *

 

One of the new cub scouts has albinism. Earl smiles at his parents, then down at the boy. He's wearing a large sunhat and long pants. He can feel Cecil's solarweave shirt under his hands, light touches and soothing finger brushes. When they were young, Cecil had taught him how to put on sunscreen and how much sun was too much and called him his best friend. They'd added “forever”, but time has a way of making sure the important promises fall apart.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Cecil.”

“Oh, wow. Hi, Earl! It's been a long time!” Cecil winces after he feels it pass through his teeth.

“Yeah. It has. So, uh, this Saturday there's this thing at the lodge on Somerset? It's, like... Pretty important.”

 

There's a rustle and static, and Cecil tries to push back through a fog that has gathered around his nerves.

 

“What is... Oh my god, Earl, your court of honor is this weekend? That is fantastic!'

“I was hoping you'd be able to come. I know you stopped doing scouting a while ago, but. You know.”

“Of course I'll be there! This is so exciting!”

“And Cecil? No furry pants. Or muumuus. This is a formal event.”

“Okay. Thank you for the invitation. I wouldn't miss it.”

“Okay. See you Saturday.”

 

Earl hangs up the phone. His stomach is still churning with _something._ He rubs at his eyes and will not let himself hope.

 

* * *

 

The White Sand Ice Cream Shoppe is quiet, Cecil's cycling phrase barely permeating the still air.

“And oh my god, he is just perfect! It's... It's so...”

“Neat?”

Cecil glowers. Earl lets his lips smirk, but his eyes are still heavy. He presses, needing something to validate the doubts Earl has about this new scientist. Carlos. He hates how naturally it falls from Cecil's tongue.

“Is he really that perfect? What makes him perfect?”

“Oh, he just is. I can just tell he is. It's one of those things you can just sense about a person. Like which hand they use to write and what their favorite 80's heavy metal band is and what kind of jam their family makes.”

“What's his favorite 80's heavy metal band?”

“Whitesnake.”

“What's mine?”

 

“Also Whitesnake.”

"Cecil.”

“If your favorite 80's heavy metal band isn't Whitesnake, you are just wrong.”

“Cecil.”

“I'm sorry, but that is the truth.”

“Well, I have to go. There's a meeting with all the den guardians. The cub scout leader has a difficult time handling all of the fights and broken noses and instantaneous, irreversible portals.”

Cecil grasps Earl's wrist gently, fingers tugging lightly towards him.

“Are you sure? I was hoping we could go to Big Rico's.”

Earl took a step towards away, pulling his arm from Cecil's .

“Yeah, it's just not a great time. See you later, I guess.”

“You'll want to listen to my show tonight. I have a feeling that there will be something very grand happening.”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

 

* * *

 

Pamela and Hershel are sitting on Tak's bed, arguing about which government organization has which color helicopter. They have each drawn pictographs. It's a circular debate. Tak is sorting Earl's shoe laces on his desk. It's taking him a remarkably long time, given that Earl only has two shoelaces, and they came with him attached to his shoes. Earl smiles, relieved that at least his friends are the same as always.

“How can you know for sure that the black ones are world government? All that information is on a need to know basis, and I'm pretty sure you don't need to know!”

“Of course I need to know. I'm going to be very important when I'm older. The more I learn now, the more time I can spend helping instead of just memorizing this stuff.”

“God, you're as bad as Cecil.”

When Earl speaks, he realizes he had not said anything for a long while.

 

“How is Cecil, Earl?” Pamela asks, and Tak wiggles his eyebrows. It looks more like he's trying to send Earl a message in morse code than anything else.

“That was a shame, what happened to Kevin. I hope he's doing alright.”

Pamela knocks shoulders with Hershel and gives him a pointed look. A very sharply pointed look. Hershel closes his mouth and looks over to Earl.

“Yeah, what's going on with you and Cecil? Since that's all we're allowed to talk about.”

 

Earl grimaces. “On Thursday, I told him that I liked him, and he said 'I like you too, Earl! We wouldn't be friends if we didn't like each other, you know', like I was confused about how friendship works.”

“And?” Pamela leans in close, like they are members of the city council discussing legislation, or some other highly classified idea.

“And then we went to big Rico's and he went to the radio station. And I went home and hated him and myself and everything.”

“I see. Hmm. Cecil.” Tak shakes his head, tsking.

“It could be worse. Hey, he could not acknowledge any good feelings between you guys even though both of you know there's something there.” Hershel smiles, but there is no joy behind it. His eyes fick to Tak and the shoelaces.

 

Pamela slides off the bed and stands, pushing Hershel off the bed with her.

“I hear my mother's dinner caw. I better go before she starts with the alarm one. The neighbors have just started to forgive us.”

She beckons to Earl. “C'mon, I'll drive you home.”

“What about me?” Hershel is still sitting on the floor. He is not looking at Tak.

“Sorry. Car will only accept two carbon-based life forms right now. I think it needs an oil change.”

 

Pamela pulls Earl through Tak's house, gripping his forearm with clenched fingers.

 

“What was that? Are you practicing your politician skills? There's more than just denial and disappearing. You also need to change the topic of conversation. And I heard about this special bloodstone passed down from-”

“You are useless. You are all useless with your love problems and stupid not-boyfriends. I am driving you home. Let's go.”

 

* * *

 

“I'm going to quit scouting.”

Earl nodded, glad the sun had set hours ago. He turned his face away from Cecil anyway.

“I know.”

They keep walking. The scrub land kicks up underneath their sneakers.

“You really love it, don't you?”

It is not a taunt, not the lighthearted jokes and jabs from his other friends over the handkerchief and shorts and badges. Cecil is sincere, with eyes that Earl can feel on his thoughts, his aura.

“Yeah.”

Cecil puts an arm around his shoulders.

“You're going to do something great, Earl.”

He can feel that touch late at night. The warmth of its shadow lures him into dreams.

 

* * *

 

Cecil is listening back in the archives to when Kevin- a name that stirs something from within himself, like trying to grasp a noodle from cold, filmy soup with a turkey baster in pitch blackness, yes, exactly like that- and program director Lauren were running the radio show.

Cecil does not allow himself to think about how those monsters had the gall to not only take every citizen's freedom away and put them in work camps under the guise of a picnic but to take away and violate the sanctity of public radio-

Oh dear. Here he goes.

Cecil takes a deep breath and resumes listening. His jaw is clenched. The shrill and carefully poised voices fade. The weather begins and he is too shocked even for anger.

Cecil pushes his headphones closer around his ears, cradling his head in sounds because while he he knows that he is hearing it correctly, he cannot shape any thoughts beyond roughly carved pieces of the sounds.

 

“Earl?”

 

Cecil knows that it is Earl; it couldn't be anyone else but Earl. The music and the voice, it was all Earl. Everything about it was Earl, and Cecil knew that everything was also him. He was deflated and filled with pride and shame and, with the clarity of those brought back suddenly from death, filled with a sadness that expanded and fractured all of the spaces Cecil had left, ebbing across each memory.

There is no doubt in Cecil's mind that this is a stab at him. It is a stab and a twist of the blade and a crying smile as it is pulled out only to be shoved further in. Earl's presence, grim and bloodstained as he stirs sauces on the stove at Tourniquet and thinking of him is not what Cecil wants imbedded under his skin. Cecil stares at his knees and the too-bright voices of Kevin and Lauren fade into the static of Cecil's thoughts.

When Carlos doesn't call again, Cecil lies on his back on their bed, which is only his right now. He is ready to lose any lingering thoughts to sleep when his body remembers being young and being next to Earl, cub scouts and soft rituals under heavy quilts.

 

“I could've loved you.”

 

The words are sluggish on Cecil's teeth and it hurts because in his heart of hearts, he knows it is true.

The darkness and alcohol do not heal time.

 

* * *

 

Earl isn't quite sure how he ended up on the edge of town. There is a cement building in front of him that is covered in neon signs. One of them says “Devil's Claw Recording Studio”. Maybe. Earl isn't really sure. He is finding that he is sure of things less and less.

The door handle squeezes Earl's hand as he pushes into the building. He is in a room with a keyboard, stands holding stringed instruments, and a line of mics against the wall. The carpet is plush and dark. Earl bounces on his feet for a minute. Very plush.

Earl looks back, but the door has been absorbed into the grey acoustic foam walls. There are no other doors, or windows, or anything else except what Earl has already seen.

He's sure that there should be a sound board somewhere; if he'd learned anything from visiting Cecil at the NVCR station, he knew the sounds made in the studio had to do somewhere, get mixed and recorded and whatever. The mics didn't even have cords.

Now there was a couch, though. Earl resigned himself to thinking that maybe he doesn't know that much about recording as he had thought.

A crumpled pile of papers and napkins materializes, along with a side table under them. Earl picks up the first paper- no, not a paper; it's the flap of a cereal box with “you have other offers” written across the colorful side and “x tuesday- too busy?” on the back.

 

He knows what to do. He does not know how, but he stands up to do it anyways. Earl picks up the ukelele from its stand and plays a simple chord progression. He is not stealing it from a boy scout song. They probably stole it from someone else. All of the years of campfire songs have taught him well; the music comes easily.

He struggles with the words. Earl thinks that they should be pouring out of his mouth but every sentiment and reflective verb is stuck behind his tonsils. He knows he should've had those removed.

After what might have been hours and what, perhaps, was just seconds, Earl looks back at the crumpled pile of thoughts and notes of simple words trying to cover up the flood that press against the back of his lips.

He lays them out on the couch, adding a few words and cinching lines together with rhymes. Earl has always liked rhymes.

Earl plays through... Something a few times on each instrument, fumbling at first but remembering the feel of wooden necks and steel strings beneath his fingers, even trying out some synth patterns on the keyboard and singing into a couple mics, the door is back.

 

“Thank you for your cooperation. Your contribution will be archived for future use. Be safe getting home, Earl. Don't try to touch the stars. Any closeness you perceive is an illusion.”

Earl feels the voice flicker under his chin and press gently on his eyelids. He is beginning to come to terms with the unsure nature his existence is taking on. It trails after him, like a tail long amputated that still makes marks in the ground behind his footsteps.

 

Earl opens the door onto a darkening sky and a growing chill on the edge of his town. He heads back towards the road and finds his car in the Arby's parking lot.

The lights don't make Earl's fingers hollow and skitter with a biting nostalgia.

He smiles up at the lights. He will do something great.  


End file.
